Chapter 19
149
Chapter 19
The day of the solstice ball dawned bright.
After she called it forth, Oriane stared dully at the sunlight pouring through her window. A vague resentment stirred in her breast at the sight of it, a distant sense of injustice at the fact that it shone so cheerfully when it had no cause to do so.
She spent the day alone, staring into space, drifting in and out of sleep. After the sun had set and the first tendrils of darkness had snaked their way inside the room, Andala appeared, holding what looked like an armful of molten gold.
‘Your gown for this evening,’ she explained, laying the pile of shimmering fabric on Oriane’s bed. Then she straightened and appraised Oriane. ‘Have you eaten anything today?’
Oriane shook her head. The thought of food made her feel ill, as did the sight of the gown – a reminder of the long evening ahead, and the performance that lay at its close. She knew, even before she tried it on, that she would look the part wearing this gown: the magical Messenger of Day, the radiant goddess of the sky. The dress was truly incredible, a masterful creation of luminous pale-gold silk that looked to have been spun from the dawn itself.
Oriane hated every thread.
‘Eat this.’ 150
Andala thrust a thick slice of bread under her nose. Oriane ignored it. Andala held it there, stubborn, until Oriane begrudgingly took it.
‘Eat,’ she repeated. ‘It will make you feel better. Then drink this. Only after you’ve eaten, and not too fast. It will help, but not if you have too much.’ She set a crystal glass on the table by Oriane’s bed. It was half filled with an amber-coloured liquid. Oriane tore off a tiny chunk of the bread and began to chew mechanically as Andala set about getting her ready for the ball.
By the time Oriane was dressed, she had finished the first slice of bread and then another, and she had to admit that Andala was right; it had made her feel the slightest fraction better. She reached for the glass as Andala finished pinning her hair atop her head. A heady scent drifted up towards her. She breathed in and a faint burning sensation flowed through her nose, down her throat. Whatever the drink was, it was strong.
‘You’re ready,’ Andala said. She spun Oriane gently by the shoulders so that they faced one another, and for a moment she simply stared.
Was she displeased with her own handiwork? Did she think Oriane looked foolish? Like the simple, sheltered, grieving girl from the woods she really was, instead of the skylark, the goddess they expected her to be? Oriane could not tell from her expression.
At last, Andala cleared her throat. ‘I’ll fetch a mirror so you can see.’
Oriane did not want to see. But Andala had retrieved a full-length mirror from some corner of the chambers and set it in front of her before she could protest.
It was like looking at an oddly familiar stranger, as if some artist had taken all the components of Oriane and rearranged them, 151 somehow, into the shape of someone divine. She still did not feel like anyone particularly special – not even after sharing her gift to such rapturous reception, or hearing herself called goddess . But the woman in the mirror … It was easy to believe she was special. The sun-gold dress was draped around her body in gossamer veils, bright as day against the light brown of her skin. Her hair was pinned elegantly off her neck, a curl or two falling free here and there, and Andala had painted a faint strip of gold across her eyes and up her temples, as if she peered out from behind a sheer, shimmering blindfold.
The only thing that made Oriane sure she was looking at herself was the eyes themselves. No cosmetic could mask the depth of grief they housed. No, those were her eyes – her father’s eyes – and for all she looked the part of the Messenger of Day, she was still just Oriane: a girl who had lost her family, and every remnant of the life she once knew.
She suddenly remembered the glass in her hand. Ignoring Andala’s protest, she raised it to her lips and drained it in one draught. The liquid burned as it went down – but fire was supposed to be cleansing, was it not? Where was it she had learned that – some volume from her library in the cottage, now reduced to ash itself? Oriane couldn’t remember. But it did not matter, because the drink was making its way through her blood and to her brain, and as it did, the first sensation of calm she had felt in days descended over her. It was a dizzy sort of calm, a spinning lightheadedness that made her feel simultaneously unbalanced and settled.
She glanced back at herself in the mirror. Andala was standing behind her, her look of concern reflected over Oriane’s shoulder. For the first time, Oriane noticed that Andala was dressed specially for the solstice ball, too. Gone was her usual maid’s uniform, and in its place a long-sleeved, high-necked evening gown of deep blue-black 152 silk. It was not as fine or intricate as Oriane’s, but the beauty of it on Andala’s body, its stark contrast against her skin, made Oriane’s heart skip in her chest. A side effect of the drink, perhaps.
Andala noticed Oriane’s eyes on her gown in the mirror, and a faint blush spread to her pale cheeks. ‘It isn’t mine,’ she said hurriedly. ‘I had to borrow it from the princess’s lady’s maid. I don’t … I’ve never been to one of these events before.’
Andala didn’t usually talk this much. Had she had some of the amber liquid, too? Was she feeling vaguely untethered, as Oriane was?
‘I know next to nothing about you. About why you ended up here – at the palace,’ Oriane said aloud, before she could stop herself. Because it was true: apart from that day in the city, she had never asked Andala about herself. She had been too self-absorbed.
Andala looked back at her, seeming to consider whether she should answer or not. As always, her expression was inscrutable, the barest hint of some inner struggle raging beneath the composed surface.
‘Please,’ Oriane murmured.
At the word, Andala nodded. She moved to the window, staring out at the gardens below, all lit up in readiness for the ball. Oriane followed.
Andala was quiet for such a long time that Oriane wondered whether she had changed her mind about sharing. Finally, she looked back at Oriane.
‘I was married,’ she said abruptly. ‘For a short time. It did not end happily. My husband and I parted ways, and I came to the city in search of employment. I was lucky enough to find work here, as a kitchen hand at first.’
Husband . Oriane was not sure why, out of everything Andala had just told her, that word stood out. It gave her an odd feeling, to know Andala had been married. 153
‘You were a kitchen hand,’ she blurted. She had to say something in reply, and for some reason her brain had seized upon that. ‘Do you … do you miss it? Working with other people, rather than being stuck up here with me?’
Andala gave her a small, strangely sad smile as she replied. ‘Not in the slightest. It was an honour to be assigned to tend the skylark herself.’
There was no mocking tone to the words. Andala’s eyes locked with Oriane’s for a quiet moment. Oriane was not sure what she saw there. But before she could open her mouth to ask any more questions, Andala turned away, smoothing down her skirts.
‘It’s almost time. We should be getting down to the ballroom.’
Oriane followed numbly as Andala led them through the corridors and down to where the ball was taking place. The palace had been transformed. Little golden lamps dotted each walkway and surface with light, making a constellation of every hallway. Flowers from the gardens scented the air at every corner. There were no people, though, which Oriane found strange. It was like walking through a dreamscape. The empty, glittering halls, the sweet scent of summer roses, the pleasant heat that still traced its way through her veins … Oriane could almost forget where she was, why she was here. What had happened only a week ago today.
As they reached the ballroom, instead of proceeding through the doors, Andala veered off towards a discreet servants’ entrance, which must have led into the great room unseen. Oriane stopped short, the dreamlike state evaporating.
‘Where are we going?’
Once more, Andala looked uncomfortable. ‘He … The king wants you to make an entrance.’
The words put a sick, sour taste in her mouth. Of course. She was to be the centrepiece of the celebration, after all. It made sense that 154 Tomas would want to wheel her out at the perfect moment, like a decorated cake.
Andala led her through the door and into a dim passageway. The sounds of a crowd, which had been distant and muffled before, grew steadily louder as they came to another door, which undoubtedly led into the ballroom. Oriane’s stomach gave an unpleasant lurch. She swallowed hard, trying to force her heart back down her throat. Her breathing grew faster, more ragged. She could not do this, not now—
A hand slipped into hers and squeezed it. The touch was brief, there and gone in a heartbeat, and the fingers were cold against her own, but it was grounding all the same. Oriane turned her head. Andala was there, not looking at her, but at the door in front of them.
‘The king will come and fetch you in a moment,’ she murmured. ‘You can do this. I’ll be there. Kitt too. It will all be over soon.’
Oriane opened her mouth – to say what, she did not know – but then a voice rang out beyond the door, rising above the hum of the crowd and calling for its attention. The noise of the revellers fell to hushed murmurs. Then King Tomas began to speak, sounding more like a king than Oriane had ever heard him.
‘Good people of Cielore.’ A brief wave of sound from the crowd, rising in acknowledgement then falling back to silence. ‘I welcome you all to this celebration of the aestival solstice. You are familiar with this day of feasting and revelry, of course, as it has been held every year since the time of my forebears. But this year, Aubrille plays host to the most honoured guest to have ever graced these halls.’
A ripple of excitement, a chorus of speculative murmurs. Oriane fought the urge to flee. 155
‘You have heard, no doubt, of the legend of the skylark – a goddess who takes the form of a bird and a woman by turns, and who calls each new day forth with the power of her song. A legend, a myth: for decades, for centuries past, that is all the skylark has been. But if I were to tell you otherwise … If I were to tell you that the skylark herself walks among us, here, in Aubrille …’
The murmurs were growing louder, louder, a swarm of insects buzzing beyond the door.
‘I think it’s time,’ Andala whispered. Sure enough, the door swung inwards. The nervous face of a page peeked around it. His wide eyes went from Oriane to Andala, and he nodded.
Oriane could not move. She felt fixed to the spot, hoping against hope that the floor would somehow open up and swallow her, drag her down below—
A gentle hand came to rest at her back. Andala guided her through the door. ‘I’ll find you soon,’ she whispered, and then she was gone, leaving Oriane alone with the page.
The doorway was concealed by enormous swathes of blue fabric. The page cleared his throat, and the hangings were drawn back to reveal the king, a shining crown upon his red-gold hair, standing before the crowd with his hand outstretched to Oriane. Before she could obey her body, which was telling her to turn away, to run, Tomas had seized her hand and pulled her forward, out of the shadowed alcove and into full display.
After the dim passageway, the ballroom was dazzling. The whole room was aglow with light. Candles, lanterns, chandeliers – so much light that it looked like daytime, despite the hour being after midnight. The brightness hurt Oriane’s eyes, but better that than to focus on the people who stood before her. There were so many of them. So many 156 hundreds of faces and dresses and glinting wine goblets. So many pairs of eyes trained on her.
The king was saying something, introducing her, showing her off to the crowd, but she could not hear the words. It was another voice she focused on, one that sounded inside her head. It was her own voice, the new one she’d used with the king the other day, and she could not stop it from speaking, its words dripping with wrath.
Wasn’t this what you wanted? Wasn’t this why you came all this way? All these people. You wanted to see them, be among them, have them turn their faces up towards you as if you were the sun itself. Well, here you are. Their goddess. Their light. Father would be proud – would be, if he could be, if he weren’t a pile of burnt-up bones—
Oriane staggered. Tomas looked sidelong at her. He was still grasping her hand, and his grip tightened, but his kingly smile never faded. He continued to speak to the crowd, his voice a ringing blur in Oriane’s ears. She caught the words ‘sunrise’ and ‘song’ and ‘until then’. And then an explosion of cheers and calls and clapping.
To Oriane’s dismay, the empty space that had been left respectfully between the king and his subjects now closed up as several of them swarmed towards her. They kept calling her ‘Lady Lark’, smiling, pressing hands to their chests as they addressed her. They were looking at her as if they knew her. As if they revered her.
Wasn’t this what you wanted? Well, here you are—
‘A little space for the lady, if you please,’ Tomas said genially. His guests acquiesced, slowly drifting away in a chorus of praise and wonder. But they still stared openly, jostling past one another for a better glimpse at the skylark.
‘Are you all right?’ Tomas murmured.
Oriane turned to him. Why should he care if she was all right? She was here, wasn’t she? Right where she was supposed to be? 157 But there was true concern in his pale eyes, drowned out though it was by the reflection of light off his crown.
‘I need something to drink,’ she choked out, because she didn’t know what else to say.
Tomas snapped his fingers; when the page magically reappeared, the king pointed towards a long table by the wall, where a veritable feast had been laid out. In another instant, Oriane had a goblet in her hand. It wasn’t the same stuff Andala had given her – this was just wine – but she drank it, grateful for anything that might dull the panic she was barely keeping at bay.
‘Oriane,’ Tomas began. She could not look at him; she focused instead on the crowd, a maelstrom of colour in a sea of light. ‘I need you to know, Oriane, how sorry I am about … about your father.’
Oriane gripped her goblet tighter, lifted it to her lips again. A band of musicians had started to play. Their instruments were very loud.
‘I know what it is … to lose a parent. To lose both parents.’
People were starting to dance. They looked at Oriane as they whirled past, their eyes always returning to her, even as they spun and swirled.
‘It pains me that I … that things came to what they did. But you must understand that I sought you out for your own good. For everybody’s good. Your power, Oriane – it is so valuable.’
Her power? What power was that? If she really had power, true power, would she not use it here, now, to … to what? To punish Tomas for what he had done? To punish his guards for following his orders?
Perhaps that was all true power was – a means of punishment.
Oriane drank more wine.
‘… believe in you, Oriane – as the skylark, you can do more than even you have ever …’ 158
Whatever it was he was talking about, Tomas sounded impassioned, genuine, earnest. Somehow, that made it worse. She could not listen to him anymore.
Beyond caring that it was rude or improper, beyond caring that he was the king, Oriane drained her goblet and let it clatter to the floor, then walked away from Tomas before he could say another word.